


Periods of Unwarranted Vasodilation

by deHavilland



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deHavilland/pseuds/deHavilland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel has a migraine. Jehan tries to assist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Periods of Unwarranted Vasodilation

Bahorel is a behemoth tangled in woollen sheets. His body, curled into foetal position as it is, still dominates the bulk of the bed, though admittedly he doesn’t feel especially monstrous at the moment – aside, of course, from the monstrous ache in his skull. For this alone, the forsaken-by-God bit of the comparison is true enough. Just put a ring through his nose and tout him as the unwilling plaything of the Supreme Being and all the appropriate definitions and labels to complete the metaphor will be taken care of quite nicely.   
  
It’s simply unjust to apply punishment where none’s been earned, though in this he’s probably just confusing himself with elaboration. His head pounds far too much to allow for complex thoughts, especially when he’s the only one around to hear them. The ills of a night spent carousing, he understands. _Welcomes_ , in fact, as proof of an evening well-employed. But this... unwarranted “ _vasodilation_ ,” as Joly has more than once said of his bouts of illness, is precisely that. Unwarranted.   
  
And damn it all, _unfair_ , too.   
  
He draws his knees up to his chest, further tangling himself in the twist of sheets, heel of his hand pressed firmly to the throb between his eyes. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday and the rumbling of his stomach in conjunction with the ache in his head is only making matters worse. He’s not in the habit of keeping food at home and while the lease on his third-floor flat says he ought to receive a bucket of water once daily, the concierge is lazy and not at all inclined to be helpful after an accidental offense on his part several months previous.   
  
All told, he’s going to have to remove himself from bed at some point. Remove himself from bed or languish himself to an early grave. The latter certainly seeming to be the preferable choice at this juncture.  
  
The sudden pound of feet in the stairwell has him seeing stars with every violent footfall, even with his eyes clenched preventatively shut. It’s not the concierge, though elephantine she may be – therein lying the spark of the insult that had turned her against him; her appearance, a few too many glasses of wine at the Barrière du Combat and a particularly ill-timed pun propagated by Bossuet – but light as a creature of air she is in the stairway.   
  
He shoves his head further beneath the pillow, lacking the energy to get properly angry at the marauding crétin heedless of paper thin walls.   
  
The rattle of fist against door sets the entire room ashake and Bahorel bites back a snarl that would only aggravate his head further when his name is called out. He recognizes that particular twang; Thierrot, then. Idiot.   
  
“Bahorel, just because you’ve succeeded in dropping from the register once again doesn’t mean you get to hide away all day.” Another volley of violent pounding assaults the door and Bahorel’s starting to fear gastric upheaval as an imminent and distinctly undesirable possibility. “I know you’re home, your portress says she hasn’t seen you leave yet this morn – ”  
  
The bousingot is interrupted by a softer voice. Not alone then, he’s come with someone. Bahorel must have missed their footsteps amid the barrage of Thierrot’s. This quieter voice is difficult to make out and as such, he’s grateful, the soft murmur almost soothing to his overtaxed head.   
  
“Have you got your mistress in with you, then? Prouvaire says to be quiet in case you’ve a girl. Is she pretty? Come out and show her to -- ”   
  
He slides out of bed at that, sheets trailing along behind him, still mostly wrapped around his body as he yanks open the door. “What kind of an idiot are you to stand on the doorstep carrying on about another man’s mistress?” He offers Thierrot the fiercest glare he can muster, though it pales in comparison to what he’s capable of when not plagued with an aching skull. Already the burst of energy which had brought him away from his bed is starting to fail and he reels on bare feet in the doorway, trying to avoid falling weakly against its frame. “And what if I did have some pretty grisette in with me, eh?”  
  
The hopeful glance Thierrot shoots past his shoulder is more than enough to fuel at least a few more minutes on his feet.  
  
“You’re a child. What do you want?”   
  
The bousingot’s eyes slide from beyond the doorway to meet Bahorel’s slightly unbalanced gaze only just now taking in his appearance. “Oh, you look terrible.”   
  
A frustrated growl tears itself from his throat, but the quiet voice presents itself then in the form of Thierrot’s saving grace, Jean Prouvaire, who interferes moments before a formal introduction can be made between the bousingot’s face and Bahorel’s doorstep.   
  
The poet’s grey eyes take in Bahorel’s miserable appearance without comment, settling momentarily on the way the sheets drape across his body, resulting in a train that leads the way back to his bed, before flicking upwards to his face. “We came to ask you to lunch, there’s been a meeting called.” He’s silent a moment, turning to Thierrot. “I think perhaps you’d better go on yourself.” To Bahorel, he adds, gently, “Your nose is bleeding.”   
  
A swipe of the backs of his knuckles across his face reveals that Prouvaire’s right, and the next several moments are spent in nurturing the seedlings of some sort of prosaic metaphor involving skulls and wine to best capture the scenario. Between this and the continued throbbing of his head, he manages to miss Thierrot’s exit, ushered away by Prouvaire, who then proceeds to turn his attention back on him.   
  
“ – drinking wine from a skull,” Bahorel offers weakly.   
  
A thin brow raises delicately and the poet’s lips twitch in what’s clearly an attempt to avoid laughing at him. “Assuredly,” he says instead, with perfectly kept composure, gesturing Bahorel back through the doorway. “Have you been drinking?”   
  
“Drinking from – ”  
  
Prouvaire pats him lightly on the shoulder and gently closes the door behind them. “I can fetch Combeferre for you. Or Joly, if you’d rather.”   
  
“Seen already. Nothing to be done but be fussed over about humours, which is guaranteed to put me in a bad one.” Back in his room, the continued throb is suddenly that much worse and with a groan, Bahorel drops heavily onto the bed, pinching at his still-bleeding nose.   
  
“Oh, here.” Prouvaire is at his side immediately, producing a handkerchief with a flourish from some back pocket. “You’ll stain your sheets.”   
  
“Damn the sheets,” Bahorel growls flippantly, jerking his head back away from the approaching linen. “You’ll ruin that before I ruin them.”   
  
“Good thing that it isn’t mine, then.” The poet smiles and lays a hand against Bahorel’s shoulder, holding him still to press the handkerchief against his twice-previously broken nose. From this angle, he recognizes it as one of his own and doesn’t bother to wonder how Prouvaire might have acquired it. “Your head must really be hurting you.”   
  
Bahorel squints an eye and peers up at him past the crush of linen pressed against his face, unimpressed.  
  
“For your nose to be bleeding, I mean,” Prouvaire amends, setting his free hand on the top of Bahorel’s head, fingers carding kindly through his hair. “Of course your head is hurting you. But it hasn’t happened in weeks, so that’s a reassurance.”  
  
Rather than answer him properly Bahorel reaches around to grab the smaller man by the hips, drawing him closer between his spread knees to better lean his forehead against his stomach. The action jostles the hand held to his nose, but Bahorel is better comforted by the warmth against his face than the staunching of any blood flow. It’s not as though his nose is what hurts, after all.   
  
“And I see you’re keen set on spoiling my shirt, now.” Despite the words, Prouvaire doesn’t flinch away from the contact, only adjusting his wrist to better hold the handkerchief in place. “It’s not exactly easy to find doublets made to size, you know. My tailor won’t even alter them for me, thanks to – ”  
  
“Find a new tailor.” Bahorel’s voice is muffled against the silk of the poet’s waistcoat, eyes sliding closed. “And for the love of all that is or is not holy, stop talking so damned loud.”  
  
Prouvaire’s fingers tighten for a moment in Bahorel’s hair, kneading at his scalp. When he speaks next, it’s softer, the hesitant voice that so many who don’t know him well best associate with him. “You really do not look well. You should be in bed.”   
  
“I – ” He begins, only to be interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Too delicate to be Thierrot returning and, anyway, he would have heard his steps on the stairs. Someone new, then. Bahorel groans at the realization, doubly so when the warm body in front of him steps away to take care of the visitor. As Prouvaire moves to the door, he lets himself fall back sideways onto the bed, curling in on himself with head to the pillow and sheets still atangle around him. The exchange of words outside the door is nothing more than a murmur and he rests his knuckles back against his eyes.   
  
“Your portress,” Prouvaire announces a minute later and Bahorel can hear the blush in his voice. No doubt the poet’s seen past the woman’s less than charming appearance to the beautiful _femme eternelle_ – or perhaps _internelle_? In any case, her metaphorical beauty must have caught both his attention and imagination. Bahorel expects to be prevailed upon to pass along irregularly stressed couplets as soon as he’s well. “She’s brought your water.”  
  
“Of course she has.”   
  
“Drink some and I’ll let you be.”   
  
“You’re worse than Joly and you’re not even a doctor.”   
  
Prouvaire’s hands are small on Bahorel’s shoulders as they coax him back up into a sitting position, holding out a glass and then, seeming to think better of it, pulling it away to snatch up one of his hands instead. “Look, you’ve smeared blood everywhere, like I said.” Out comes the already stained handkerchief again and Prouvaire sets to scrubbing Bahorel’s knuckles clean, his own fingers looking childlike in comparison.   
  
Satisfied, he returns the glass to his lips, tilting his head halfway petulantly to the side as he waits for Bahorel to take a sip. “Better?”  
  
Bahorel closes his eyes and leans back into the pillow. “Oh, countenance much restored, thank you.”   
  
“See? I told you that – oh.” Realizing that the joke’s been made at his expense, Prouvaire falls silent, setting both glass and kerchief aside. “I’ll let Combeferre know you’re feeling poorly and Enjolras not to expect you.” He waits as Bahorel makes himself more comfortable, then takes a seat at the edge of the bed, retucking the blankets carefully around him, and blushing when he realizes Bahorel’s been without clothing this entire time.   
  
“I’ve a – a thing – ” He gestures towards the clutter on his desk where the beginnings of a pamphlet of sorts that he’s been working on rests amid the debris. “Take it with you, Combeferre mentioned he’d like to have a look.”   
  
Prouvaire nods and waits until Bahorel’s resettled to place his fingertips lightly against the bigger man’s face, tracing delicate whorls and flowery lines against his forehead in what can only be an attempt to be comforting.  
  
Bahorel suffers this gentle treatment for less than a minute before his arm shoots out to snag Prouvaire’s wrist in his grasp, drawing the hand away from his face. “Jehan.”   
  
Recognizing that his friend has put up with enough tender mothering for one morning, Prouvaire takes up the mentioned pages and slips quietly out of the apartment.   
  
When he awakens hours later, his head clearer, Bahorel finds that the poet’s once again come and gone, leaving behind some food in his wake, as well as the pamphlet now complete with a few added notes from both Combeferre and Feuilly. Beneath it on his desk, tucked near the plate is a hastily written note in Courfeyrac’s hand detailing the rumours that Lamarque’s succumbed to the cholera and may not live out the week.   
  
Bahorel takes up a bit of the bread and reads the note through a second time, then a third.   
  
Interesting.


End file.
